disposable
by regality
Summary: After all, she was nothing but replaceable. FE13. —tharja, noire.


**disclaimer: **i own nothing.

**a/n:** jfc it was wrong of me to read fe:a fan fiction. fix my heart please.

**. . .**

Those tragic, beautiful stories of death were lies. All of them.

(She doesn't read much so she had heard many of them from Cynthia most of the time when she talked and talked and _talked_ about books that she had found somewhere about some naïve hero and his adventures. Sometimes, she's forced to read them but she admits, she's a bit curious too.)

There were similarities, however, between stories and reality.

Like the falling.

The book said that time would stop and it would be as if no one could breathe, heartbeats would pause, life would come to a standstill and there will be a failure of comprehension because death has taken a grip on one of them and there would be final words of heartbreaking goodbyes with tearful apologies or confessions—

But there were differences.

She had been sloppy, tired, unaware (or maybe she just didn't care anymore) and so close to simply closing her eyes and accepting that yes, they're all going to die anyway because it feels like there was no hope left and all they could do was wait for their demise as the Risen kept increasing in numbers while theirs kept decreasing rapidly.

It was useless.

But there was a part of her that insisted that they would survive and there will be such things as happy endings for them all (she had almost laughed at that, in the middle of the battlefield), that they will share smiles and laughter just like how they used too.

So she fought.

She aimed and released arrows with lethal precision that could only be achieved from her long, hard practice each day. Enemies fell, disintegrated, but more took their place. Still, she kept on fighting and her arrows flew, fast, efficient, deadly.

Then she felt something wrong, a flicker of unexplainable dread, and it filled her heart, her stomach, her head but she tried to dismiss it because it must be nothing. She must _concentrate_ and shoot, shoot, _shoot_.

Though it lingered, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.

It made her terribly uneasy.

(She realized that at that time she must be predicting the damned future.)

And then there was a sharp, agonized scream from somewhere she couldn't see.

It was enough to turn her attention away from the fighting for a moment because the voice had sounded familiar and it may have been one of her friends—

She noticed the axe too late.

(It was a mistake caused by carelessness. She could blame no one else.)

There was no closing her eyes because she could only watch, unblinking and utterly transfixed, as the blade, sharp and shining, slowly descended upon her.

For a moment, there were no doubts, no worries, no suffering, no joy, no fear in her head as the axe came closer to her, almost as if some sort of twisted, sick form of salvation.

(But they're already twisted and sick and mad anyway.)

Then she, _Mother_, she came—

—and shoved her away.

The blade plunged into her back.

Red splattered to the sky, suspended there, just for a moment, and then flowed down, down, down to her waist then her legs then to the ground and her eyeseys_eyes _were dimming, her hands were slacking and it was as if she was drooping, like a wilting flower, weak, helpless, _dying_—

She screamed.

All hesitation was gone in an instant as the pain, _oh so much burning, aching, raw pain_ overwhelmed her entirely and she wanted to burn, stab, _kill_ that thing that hurt her how dare it, _how dare it_—

The world blurred and it was as if she knew nothing anymore.

**. . .**

(The stories lied because there were no last words, goodbyes, promises, confessions because death had struck swiftly and cruelly before there was any chance to say anything at all.)

**. . .**

What was it?

(Was it love?)

Wasn't she replaceable?

(Maybe. Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe.)

Was this all a lie?

(Or was this the truth?)

Why wasn't she answering?

(Move, breathe, just do something— anything, _anything, please_.)

Let this be a dream.

(_Please…_

_...don't leave me._)

**. . .**

She demanded her to open her eyes.

(Not like she'll obey her anyway. Oh, that's it she wouldn't wake up because she kept on _telling _her and she really shouldn't— it's her Mother, after all— so maybe if she stopped telling her what to do she'll— she'll—)

There was more screaming, more restraints and they took her weapons but they couldn't take away her tongue and her voice so she screamed more _wake up woman, wake up, I know you won't die that easily, you fool!_

But she didn't. She never woke up.

**. . .**

The taste of love had been fleeting.

(She had assumed it's love but if not then _what_ is it? And gods, _why_?)

Sweet but bitter, full of unanswered questions, uncertainty, confusion, bliss and despair. It was bizarre, strange, odd and sad but wonderful.

She cherished it.

The ring was gripped tightly in her palm, firmly pressed over her beating heart as she cried.

**. . .**

_—end__—_

**a/n2: **it said that tharja had used magic to sacrifice herself but i don't care. and i think something's a bit off with this but meh.


End file.
